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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907454">Blue Dream</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolneptune/pseuds/lolneptune'>lolneptune</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:13:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907454</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolneptune/pseuds/lolneptune</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Potter,” he said, coming to me, “you need a roommate, yes?”</p><p>“Uh, sure,” I said, uncomprehending. His eyes were very bright.</p><p>“Well,” he grinned, “I’ve found you one.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this fic has a playlist! </p><p>https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21gYpHLydiCjntuyxhR7rv?si=c_wms2Q6QI-y-6nm23vjLw</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eventually, I got around to emailing him. I wasn’t sure at all whether I’d get a response. I’d been thinking recently that it’d be good to know for sure: if I’d ever see him again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It had been a rough year. I’d knocked out about two-thirds of the work that needed to be done as far as buying back the fakes went, and then one evening in the throes of a depressive episode I did too much blow in Hobie’s bathroom, blacked-out, and woke up in an ambulance with a harried nurse keeping tabs on my heart rate. It was all very dramatic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I ended up in a psych ward for about five weeks — got clean — and then, at Hobie’s behest, followed an outpatient program for a little under two months. In my email to Boris, I told him none of this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Boris,</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>I’m going to be in New York for a while — finally finished buying back all the furniture. Any chance of catching you out here? It’s been a while.</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Theo</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Short and sweet and a little bit evasive. He’d left his email with me before dropping me off for my flight back to NYC; but it had been over a year (he was hard to reach in the first place) and who knew if he’d changed his email since then? It was more than possible — most likely, really, with the way his life was going. Jumping from one place to the next, light on his toes. No trace left behind. Our first hiatus had been (ostensibly) brought on by his guilt, fear of my disdain. I wondered if there was some other reason he didn’t reach out now — if he again suspected me of resenting him. It couldn’t be farther from the truth, of course, despite everything. I missed him. But I also wondered if <em>he</em> didn’t want to see <em>me</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Was he avoiding me?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But his response took not a day. I opened it, anxious as a preteen with a crush, as I was closing up shop for the day. Read it on the work computer, Manhattan sunset yellow and liquid on the reflective old waxes, varnishes in the shop. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>On my way!!!!</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I couldn’t help smiling, even as that old annoyance flared up in me — my thoughts something like: If he’s so eager to see me, why didn’t he reach out sooner?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was childish, but then my feelings, when it came to Boris, had always felt a little childish, a little vulgar. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We shouldn’t have ended that way: My thoughts kept circling back to this, obsessively. He shouldn’t have let me leave. I shouldn’t have left. (He should have come with me.)</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In my institutional little cot, I used to roll around in bed at night — over and over, miserable and itchy with sobriety — imagining all the other ways it could have gone. I imagined begging him, bribing him, even offering him a job at the shop. He could have helped with sales — he would have been good at it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Of course, there was the question of Hobie, and what he’d have to say about it; I had no idea what he thought of Boris — or me, for that matter. I knew he cared about me, of course, but there was a certain shame that I felt — that I’d always felt — when it came to my relationship with Boris. And saying it like that makes it sound like something it’s not, but it’s the truth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Coming back after Amsterdam… It was like arriving fresh out of Vegas all over again — that identical fear of being judged, of being a burden. I was often sick with fear. And there was a sensory element to it: New York felt too close, too excited. Loud noises triggered me, made me flinch, made me hyperventilate. It was jarring and uncomfortable as being wrenched out of sleep. And then there was Kitsey to deal with, and Mrs. Barbour, and that bastard Lucian Reeves — thank God he fled the city. Good fucking riddance. It was all such a headache, such a miserable segue from almost killing myself (after, in fact, committing homicide) to winding up right in the same awful place as before: unhappily engaged, drug-addicted, and obsessed with a girl I barely knew. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And on top of all of it, wishing fiercely for my friend, who was God-knows-where, tangled up in God-knows-what, could be dead or alive, on a plane or in a jail cell — wishing he would call, show up, take me by the shoulders and drag me off to some frightening new adventure. To be swept away — I craved it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The traveling helped. It was lonely — I recall taking night walks, wherever I was, pacing the motel corridors or circling the block, passing the same liquor shop three times before I finally caved. But those were the only days I felt I could sit still and, if only for a moment, relax. I was separated from the rest of the world — the rest of <em>my </em>world. The unfamiliarity of it all, the busy days, the run-of-the-mill old dudes in hotel bars — it was all so wonderfully plain, numbing like a morphine lollipop. The way I described it to my therapist, it was like existing within a weird grey dream. Not the labyrinthine unholiness of the museum — those dreams that sent me rattling awake, sweating and sick with fear — but a different sort of maze altogether, one that breathed fog instead of smoke, dawn instead of dusk. The blue hour. It all bled together like paint. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now I had my own apartment; it was crazy to think that I was living alone. The last time I’d lived alone was when Boris started spending his nights at Kotku’s — even then, my dad and Xandra had been around some of the time. I was afraid, at first, that I wouldn’t be able to handle it — left to my own devices, I’d relapse, die for good, something along those lines. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But it wasn’t so bad. Not at first, anyway. I spent virtually all my free time at the shop, ate most meals with Hobie; and, when I wasn’t doing either of those things, I was doing my best to systematically jog down every street and avenue in Manhattan (and Brooklyn better watch out). I was turning into one of <em>those</em> guys. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The problem was — I couldn’t actually afford the apartment. Even sharing virtually every meal with Hobie, who was kind enough to cook for me much of the time, living alone wasn’t cheap; I would likely have to downsize to a space farther out from the store. There was an extra bedroom, but I couldn’t imagine rooming with somebody.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For now, Boris would be sleeping in the extra bedroom; I would pick him up from the airport tomorrow. He’d sent a text at 2 AM the night before to my cell:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>thurs 8pm est @ jfk! be there!!! </em>
  </span>
  <span class="s2">🥳🤪🗽✈️🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Potter!” He pulled me firmly into a hug, all leather and warmth, and then he held me at arms length and gave me the once-over. “Fuck, is good to see you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laughed, kind of startled and pleased at once. “You too, man.” He looked healthier than he had in Antwerp; it was a relief. He had his hair half pulled back in a bun, a scarf around his neck, roses in his cheeks. And his ear pierced, I noticed. (I recognized immediately that it was the “gay” ear, but I didn’t have the heart to inform him.)</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You like?” He waggled it, gave me a toothy grin. Laughed before I could answer. “Come on, I need my bags. I think is number seven.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His bags were on the ninth belt, actually, and they took forever to come around. We stood a little ways away. “Big fucking flight,” he opined. “There was tiny baby sitting in the row ahead, size of my thumb. But damn did he cry like a motherfucker. Couldn’t sleep for whole flight.” I noticed the shadows beneath his eyes. “Hope your bed is comfy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laughed, but suddenly I was wondering what he meant: surely he didn’t mean <em>my bed</em>? The one that I slept in? I was almost shaking with that weird, unsettled feeling of seeing someone dear to you for the first time in a while. I wished suddenly that I had some blow to take the edge off. Old habits die hard. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I noticed him glancing at me. And then we saw his bags emerge, and I turned and called him over as I jogged to catch them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I grabbed one; he took the other. We kept up a friendly banter all the way to the sidewalk, and I tried not to think about the logistics of him sleeping over. There was an extra room — everything was going to be fine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, ah,” Boris glanced at me, “what’s a guy gotta do to get a cab around here?” His New Yorker impression was predictably awful.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No Gyuri?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shrugged. “Figured, is high time he gets a vacation. Also, I don’t imagine your invitation to stay with you extended to Gyuri, mm? He would make a mess of your place — he is not very cleanly. Learned this the hard way.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Neither was Boris, I thought; his apartment in Antwerp was overflowing with books, bottles, drug paraphernalia…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He must have seen the look on my face because he cuffed me on the arm and laughed. “Don’t make that face at me. You’re no Mr. Clean yourself, Potter.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck off,” I said, laughing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I hailed down a cab and helped load his bags into the trunk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know,” I said, once we’d piled into the back seat of the cab, “the place I’ve got now is pretty clean. You’ll be surprised.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looked at me sideways. Streetlights flickered past us in the dark. “Then you must spend very little time there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s not true,” I protested, though he was right. “I just take care of my things.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm,” he said, as though he couldn’t quite believe this. “I think I will be the judge of this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Of course, when we got to my apartment, he said the same thing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is like you’ve never set foot inside this place!” he announced. “Looks like model home. Like those soulless shells of houses back in Vegas. You know the ones I mean.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks so much for letting me stay in your lovely home, Theo,” I mocked. “You’re so welcome, Boris, thanks for coming.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He snickered. “I do not sound like that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, because you’re an ingrate.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“For starters,” he continued, as though I hadn’t spoken at all, “I would never call you that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What,” I said, “my name?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you take me for, some kind of stranger? No need for such pleasantries between us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I helped carry his bags to the spare bedroom, where he continued to pile on the compliments. “This looks like hotel room!” he exclaimed. “So bleak and barren.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Boris, shut up,” I said without heat. “You’ve got a down comforter in here and — and art on the walls and fucking nice furniture, so shut the fuck up about my interior design abilities.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know what this reminds me of? That hotel room in Amsterdam you holed up in for days. Hah! Remember?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I drew a sharp breath. “Yes, I remember,” I snapped. “Go ahead, make yourself at home in your bleak little servant quarters. I’m getting dinner.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Potter.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shut the door behind myself and left the building. I needed air. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It wasn’t Boris’ fault — he didn’t know I’d tried to kill myself in that room. Something in me had reared up and bit me in the throat; I didn’t feel like I could speak without crying. I made myself sit on a bench and count my breaths before I went on.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">My phone chimed in my pocket. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>u safe? </em>It was from Boris. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Yes</em>, I sent back. <em>Sorry. Back soon. </em></span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I bought us pizza slices and a piece of tiramisu in a deli container for Boris. On my way back to the apartment I stopped inside a tourist shop and got an I </span>
  <span class="s3">♥</span>
  <span class="s1"> New York shot glass for him as a peace-offering, which seemed pretty stupid thereafter and which I handed to a couple of French tourists who stopped me for directions. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was lying on the sofa with a book when I came in. He looked up at me; I couldn’t read his expression. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey,” I said. I hung my coat and put the food on the kitchen counter. “I got pizza.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stood and came to join me. “What’s going on?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean?” I busied myself getting us plates, napkins.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We don’t need those,” he said, unwrapping his slice. He took a greasy bite, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come here. What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I couldn’t meet his eye. I found a fork for him and brought it over with the little carton of tiramisu. “Nothing’s wrong. Here, this is for you.”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glanced at him; he cocked an eyebrow. “Why are you avoiding this?”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What —?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t play stupid, my God.” He took another bite of pizza. “Cut the crap. Why you rushing out of here like your arse is on fire?” Another bite. “Shit, this is good, where you get this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Place called Lorenzo’s,” I said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He moaned quietly. “Mm. Show me tomorrow.” Another bite. “You got beer?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I fetched us two bottles from the fridge.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nice.” He knocked his open on the lip of the counter; the bent cap clattered to the floor. “Shall we stand around here eating at kitchen counter like boys?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We brought our things to the sofa and sat in silence for a bit, drinking and eating, making ourselves comfortable. Or — Boris was making himself comfortable; I was sitting at the edge of my seat, wishing I’d taken a little longer getting back. Maybe he’d have fallen asleep. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sky was black outside, empty but for the moon. Only the floor lamp was on in my apartment. Corners sunk into shadow, softening the space into roundness. Boris’ book had a title in Cyrillic; with my elementary grasp of Russian, I could only parse out that the author was Mikhail Kuzmin. I’d never heard of him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“O-kay,” he said finally, setting his beer on the coffee table, “let’s talk.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What about,” I said flatly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What you been up to, hmm? How was your year?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My year,” I repeated. I couldn’t help but laugh. Where to begin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Start with January,” he said. “What did you do that month?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I must have looked to be in sorry shape, the way he was talking to me. “I was, uh, I was buying back the furniture.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes? And February?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are we really gonna do this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? I want to know how you’ve been.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve — Not great. Not too fucking peachy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me about it.” He took my shoulder; I looked at him. “Theo.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t need your pity.” I rubbed my eyes; realized I was crying. “Fuck.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You think I don’t know this? Me — biggest fuck-up in history. Was in rehab for months this year. Let’s talk about that, yes?” He was rubbing circles in my back as he spoke, gesticulating as I sobbed into my hands. “I wake up in Danish hospital, no memory of past 48 hours, sick as a dog. Gyuri had to sneak me out — IV still attached, skating on the pole, some vigilante nurse pops out of the escape car to un-poke me — how you say — I get the IV out, thinking am free at last, suddenly Gyuri is dumping me at a clinic with duffel bag full of too-big clothes. One pair of trousers that fit — these drawstring sweatpants, you know — and the medics take the drawstring, thinking I may hang myself with the thing, so what have I got? No fucking pants that fit, had to roll the waist over three times before anything stayed up. Good thing you think is fucking hilarious, hm?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I was laughing a little hysterically — hiccuping, kind of. He left to get me a glass of water and came back with a mug. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can’t find your cups,” he explained. “Kitchen is badly organized.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laughed some more. “Fuck off,” I said. “You’re a terrible guest.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He scoffed. “You are terrible host.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This made me laugh hardest, painfully, until he put a hand over my mouth and commanded me to stop; he was trying to keep a straight face and failing, calling me all sorts of names. Finally I calmed down and he made me drink the whole mug of water. Occasionally I’d start crying again and I’d have to stop for a moment before continuing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I never used to cry. It was getting sober that opened the floodgates; I cried at everything, now. I was mostly too exhausted to feel embarrassed about it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At some point he made me get up and go with him to my bedroom; he sat on my bed and wouldn’t leave until I’d taken my meds. Diazepam, venlafaxine, prazosin. He cracked my window open a couple inches and stood there looking out at the city. I could hear an engine running outside; thousands of living things in the distance, voices overlapping, the orchestra of life. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have nightmares still?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” I said. “The meds help, though.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was a black shape in the dark of my bedroom. Faint light from the street cast his face in profile. I closed my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good,” he said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I should be the one,” I yawned, “showing you to your room.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bah. Don’t say such things,” he said. “What did I tell you? No need for this between us. May as well be brothers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mm,” I said. Did he think of me as a brother? I supposed I’d always known this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I felt him looking at me. I was afraid he might lie down next to me. I was afraid that I’d let him. “Sweet dreams, Potter,” he said. I opened my eyes and watched him walk to my bedroom door. Away. “We talk tomorrow.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I didn’t sleep well. Had a dream that Andy Barbour was alive and hated me. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember why. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I found Boris in the kitchen eating his tiramisu with a spoon. There were two mugs of tea on the counter; he was levering a teabag up and down in one of them, expression preoccupied, lost in thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey,” I said. He looked up, startled. “Don’t you want breakfast?"</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is breakfast,” he said. “Delicious. Softer overnight — now is like cake. You should try.” He waggled a spoonful at me.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laughed quietly, side-stepped him to get to the fridge. “I’ll pass.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come on, Potter. Taste. Don’t be chicken.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I found some apples in the crisper drawer and took them to be washed and cut. “You want some of this?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Try first,” he commanded. I took the spoon from him and sucked it clean. “Good, yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine,” I said. I floundered; it was a little intimate, wasn’t it, to share a spoon? I put it in the sink. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Get your own,” I said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That <em>was</em> my own.” He grumbled, filched a slice of apple from the cutting board. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We sat at the rarely-used breakfast table in the nook, two mugs of tea between us and apples and the rest of his tiramisu. I was thinking about frying some eggs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You sleep well?” I asked him. He still had those circles under his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mm,” he said evasively. “You?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine,” I said.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Liar.” I looked up; he was frowning at me. “You were having a nightmare.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So he was spying on me? I sat back and rubbed at my forehead. More likely I was crying out in my sleep. Once again: too exhausted to feel embarrassed about it. “I can’t even remember it. It wasn’t that bad.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hm.” He took a long drink of tea, watched his hands on the table. “Your medicines help you, though.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah. The, uh — It’s called prazosin. It treats nightmares.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hm.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you take anything?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not anymore,” he said. “Was getting methadone at the clinic.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” I said, surprised. “So was I.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He gave me a funny little grin. Somehow, it seemed, he had figured me out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you, um —“ I looked away. “Do you want eggs? I might make some.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “You got tobacco sauce?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tabasco? Yeah, I think so.” I got up and went to look. “Scrambled or fried?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sunny-side up?” </span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We had eggs with hot sauce, but we were still hungry — there was little to eat at my place — so we walked a couple blocks to a café and got pastries. Boris insisted on paying. I got a scone; Boris got a chocolate croissant. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He made little sounds as he ate. “Fuck. This is good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laughed at him. My scone was weirdly damp and oversized — an American knock-off. “Quit moaning and groaning like that. You sound like —“ I trailed off, shaking my head. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re jealous you don’t think to eat delicious sweets for breakfast,” he said.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, alright.” He sounded strikingly like his younger self in that moment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So,” he said, once he’d licked all the crumbs off his fingers, “you were in rehab.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, sort of,” I said. “Outpatient.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah. And before that…?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was in the hospital,” I said. I tried to keep my voice down; not only was I loathe to be overheard by our overbearing waitress, I was also unhappily aware of the tremble in my voice whenever I spoke about my time in inpatient. “Little over a month.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hobie brought you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I nodded. “He found me. It was just an overdose.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just an overdose — Listen to yourself!” Boris laughed in disbelief. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I mean — It was accidental.” I had already said too much; I didn’t want to talk about my attempts. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He frowned. “Okay.” He seemed to search something out in himself. “Okay. They gave you methadone?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, that was in outpatient. I was still getting lofexidine at the hospital. You know how it is.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” he said, though he didn’t sound too sure. “And your outpatient — how long were you at this place?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Like, two months,” I said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” he said again. He drew a breath. “When did you get out?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“End of May,” I said. “Look, can we put a ban on interrogations until we’ve both had something to drink? I don’t want to do this right now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He put his hands up — <em>I surrender</em>. “No problem. No more interrogating. I want to hear about Popchyk, anyway. How is the little dummy?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smiled at that. “You can see for yourself. You up for swinging by the shop in a few? I’m almost done with this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Boris was grinning widely, an impish twinkle in his eye. “Take it to go! Is Mr. Hobie’s shop near?”</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Popper was, predictably, elated; he bounded up to Boris on his creaky old legs and whined pathetically until Boris picked him up and smacked him on the lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Snaps! Yes, I know! I know you missed me! How cruel of Potter to keep us apart!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I could only scoff at this, but it was really kind of wonderful to see them together again. I thought of their reunion a year ago. Their roles were sort of reversed, now: while Boris looked a good deal healthier, Popper was clearly on his last leg — his eyes were leaky, bones shivery with arthritis, fur stiff and fuzzy like a perm. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heard Hobie coming up the stairs from the workshop; I wished suddenly that I’d warned him to expect a visitor — I couldn’t remember if I’d told him Boris was coming to New York at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But he took it all in stride, of course; I shouldn’t have expected anything less of him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Boris! What a pleasant surprise.” He glanced at me — gave me a quick, warm smile, which I reciprocated with utter relief — and accepted Boris’ half-embrace (he was still holding Popper) with a gentle pat on the back. “I see Popper’s attached himself to you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s a good boy,” said Boris with pride. “Knows who his papa is.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hobie laughed warmly. “He’s missed you. Theo, look at how pleased he is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a happier dog.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hobie ushered us to the living room, where Boris made himself comfortable on the couch and I dithered awkwardly before settling in an armchair a few feet away. Popper was sprawled belly-up on Boris’ lap, wagging his tail lazily as Boris played with his paws. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Would you boys like some tea?” Hobie called from the kitchen. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Boris caught my eye and nodded. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, thanks, we’d love some,” I said. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I glanced at Boris; he was smiling down at his hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a moment, I excused myself and went to join Hobie in the kitchen. I felt I owed him an explanation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was filling the kettle when I came in. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What should I make you two?” he asked me, wandering to the cabinet and rifling through various boxes and spice jars. “Is English Breakfast alright? I’m afraid that’s all we have.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s perfect,” I said. If I sounded nervous, he made no comment. I found three mugs and put them on the counter, trying to make myself useful. Braced myself. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you he was coming,” I said to his back. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment arrangement. I just found out yesterday.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not a problem,” he said lightly. “It’s always nice to have a guest.” He finally glanced at me. “He looks well.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” I said, a little too quickly. “It’s — I mean, he’s doing well, I think.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hobie smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.” Turning to me: “Speaking of Boris, how does the young man take his tea?”</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Boris had always had a cinematic look about him — high contrast, eclectic, a little mysterious. His new teeth were glow-in-the-dark white; his hair was as black as ever, bluish in the sun. As a kid his canines were sharp, vampirish. He could easily have been some kind of nocturnal beast in another life. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With his black coat, his leather jacket, all those expensive pairs of shined black shoes; his pewter rings and leather bracelets, the new silver stud in his right ear; that smoky, boozy smell that lingered in his hair, and the cleaner, sweeter smell of Égoïste; he had grown into himself, both darkly comforting and full of rough, wild light. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was expensive, confident; and still I saw the specter of his youth in his eyes, the many marks on his skin (scars, burns, tattoos, little black moles from sun exposure). Old and new. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We were at a little hole-in-the-wall record store; Boris had insisted, after we’d finished our tea and left Hobie’s to walk around the city. I watched him flip with nimble fingers through the P-S crate in the Rock section. I was thumbing idly through Classical. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You heard of him?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I looked up: Boris was holding out a copy of Carrie &amp; Lowell. Still shrink-wrapped; a new release.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, I think,” I said. “My mom liked a few of his songs.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That makes sense,” he said mysteriously. “He is like you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I turned that over in my head. Boris tucked the copy under his laden arm and shuffled over to the next crate. I kept watching him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He seemed to really consider this. “Dunno how to explain.” He paused. “You know that story about the grandmother who gets in the car for, what’s it called, trip by car down South…?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A road trip?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, exactly.” A weird feeling settled over me as I listened to him, like I was tucked away safe in a dream. Sunlight poured through the shop door; it was warm inside; everything smelled old. "They take this road trip, is like 1950s or something, very racist time and all, and the grandmother is very funny and gets her son to drive down this dirt road to see a house she remembers from childhood. Car flips over and tumbles into ditch, they think all is hopeless — suddenly these men show up. One of them is the murderer” (I flinched) "she saw in the news. And he and his posse kill them all; but the grandmother, she saves him, as she lays there dying. You know this one?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I remembered something. “Are you talking about that Flannery O’Connor short story?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, that’s it!” He flashed me a bright, arresting smile. “Anyway, this musician, don’t know how to say his name, God bless him, he wrote a song about that story, and it’s from the perspective of the killer.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Huh. Is it any good?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t know. Read about it online.” This, for some reason, made me laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He checked out with something like fifteen albums and paid in cash. When we stepped outside, he guffawed and elbowed me in the side.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“God, she was all over you!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? Who?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He goggled at me like I was stupid. “The cashier! Pretty lady with purple hair!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.” I blushed; I hadn’t noticed. “She hardly spoke to me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She was <em>staring</em> at you,” he pressed. “God, why do I even try? You are blind.” He reached out and flicked my glasses; I pushed him off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck off,” I said. “Why did you want to go in there anyway? What are you going to do with all those records?” I didn’t recall seeing a record player at his place in Antwerp. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He scoffed. “Is for you, of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the sun, his eyes turned the color of a strong cup of tea (boiling, three sugars). </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What, for that old Schneider? I don’t think it even works. Hobie got it for me. It’s more for decoration than anything.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pfft,” he said, throwing his hand up, “all these furnishings in your home that you never use. We will see if this old Schneider still works.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “If Mr Hobie found it, I bet he fixed it up nice for you.”</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was right. The first album he put on was a copy of The Velvet Underground &amp; Nico (a really lucky find) and it was a miraculous, happy thing when he dropped the needle and the first notes rang out, resinous and crackly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wow.” I was a little stunned. I got a crazy sense of déjà-vu. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Boris looked at me, thumbs in his belt loops, grinning widely. “Eh?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I smiled. It was easy to smile. “I’ve got to hand it to you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He lured me to the sofa and made me sit there while he got us beers. “We should go shopping,” he called back to me. “Your fridge is gutted.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I rolled my eyes. “If you’re hungry, we can get takeout.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heard him knock off the caps; he came striding back to the living room with a bottle in either hand. I took one; his fingers were cold. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You live like a bachelor, Potter.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” I answered, reasonably I thought, “I <em>am</em> a bachelor.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He scoffed: <em>You know what I mean. </em>“You need more things in here. You are antiques dealer — how is your place so empty?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I was getting pretty tired of this spiel. “That’s work; it’s different. Why should I fill my apartment with shit I don’t need?” Truthfully, I was just being contrary; I’d have loved to live in a place filled with antiques, beautiful useless things. Somewhere that resembled Hobie’s, or my mother’s old apartment. “I’d just end up having to move it all over again, anyway.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean?” He was frowning. “You’re moving?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shrugged, set my beer down. “Most likely.” The album was still playing; it leeched some of the tension out of me. I relaxed into the couch with a sigh. “I can’t afford the rent. I’ll have to move farther out from the shop. Maybe in Brooklyn or something, I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have your snowflake move in with you!” he exclaimed. “She has money, no?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I stared at him. “Boris.” I couldn’t help but laugh; his expression grew confused. “Shit. It’s been so long; I keep forgetting. I’m not dating Kitsey.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? But you were engaged. I was at the party!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laughed harder. “Why do you think I don’t have a ring?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He began to look suspicious. “You were in rehab.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, yeah,” I allowed, “fair enough. But I broke it off with Kitsey months ago.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because of your overdose?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Before the overdose,” I told him. My face heated up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When?” He wanted an answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I took a long swig of beer. “I don’t know. Sometime after Amsterdam, I guess.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I could feel his eyes on me. “Well, somebody else, then. Your redhead.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I shook my head. “I — no. That’s over. She’s with somebody else.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you love her, no?” He sounded almost angry — like he’d been counting on my wanting her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I —“ I didn’t know how to explain. “It wouldn’t work.” When I saw him open his mouth to refute this, I said the thing I’d been thinking for months. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be with her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That shut him up. In our sudden silence, I realized the record had ended; it was skipping over the end, a steady rhythm. I stood and turned off the machine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not in the right place to be dating somebody, anyway,” I said, reciting almost verbatim the line my therapist seemed to love throwing around whenever I expressed loneliness. “I need to focus on recovery.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And,” I added — quickly, as I’d realized I was rambling, “I don’t like the idea of having some stranger living with me. Before you tell me I ought to put an ad on Craigslist.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Da, of course,” he murmured, sounding preoccupied. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We slipped into silence. His mood seemed dampened, or suspended, or something, so I suggested we walk to the bodega down the street, feigning reluctance but really just hoping it would snap him out of whatever funk had befallen him. He responded amicably to my nervous gabbing all the way there but still seemed distracted by something so that the web of anxiety in my gut drew tighter and denser still. By the time he excused himself and stepped out of the store to make a call, I felt like throwing up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Was he asking Gyuri right now to come and get him? I couldn’t think of what I may have said to upset him, but suddenly everything in his countenance had changed. What was it? Could I fix it before I lost him again? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The basket in my hand felt heavier. I put it down on the floor and pretended to examine a box of some inscrutable variety of biscuit whose ingredients were written in Portuguese. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heard the door open, a high peal of bells, and I made myself pause before I looked over. It was him; he searched the store with his eyes and found me. He was burning with something, unable to suppress a smile. My gut swooped. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Potter,” he said, coming to me, “you need a roommate, yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, sure,” I said, uncomprehending. His eyes were very bright.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” he grinned, “I’ve found you one."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>quick notes about this chapter:</p><p>theo mentions that boris smells of égoïste: i fell down a rabbit hole on fragrantica (that perfume website) because i felt very strongly that boris should smell of sandalwood. lo and behold this wonderful review by a user called "jæ": </p><p>"Another delightful and classic offering from Chanel. Égoïste—French for 'selfish' or 'self-centered' —smells anything but. To me, this combination of dark woods, warm spices, sweet tobacco, and sultry rose evokes calm expansiveness, sophisticated generosity, and receptive contemplation. This is the wisdom of an old friend, the reassuring hug of the longtime confidant who knows all your secrets—good and bad—and doesn't judge you for them. There is also some mystery here, but no pretentiousness or arrogance, just a very smooth, velvety woody-spicy-floral blend. As the sandalwood and cinnamon mellow, the tobacco, rose, and carnation rise to prominence, and later in the drydown, Égoïste turns into a dusky mahogany rose. I find it masterful and imbued with a kind of lusciousness, not that of sensuality, but of the confidence that comes with experience. I personally prefer this over the Platinum version; the original is more unique and fuller to my nose. Better in cool weather, slightly more formal, and gorgeously unisex."</p><p>like what?? perfect. fragrance people write so beautifully it pains me! who knew?</p><p>another note: the short story boris references is "a good man is hard to find," and the musician is sufjan stevens. some of u may know donna tartt is religious and i think, even if she may intend otherwise, her philosophies make their way into her writing, especially insofar as good and evil are concerned. anyway. take from that what you will.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We celebrated that night: we bought rolling papers and dug out my stash of weed (in a Ziplock bag stuffed at the bottom of an old sack of coffee beans), rolled matching blunts and sat in folding chairs smoking them on the roof of my building. I couldn’t quite believe it; I kept peering around the corner of the stairwell entrance, trying to get a better look at the city below us — assessing it for detail, probing my own capacity for sight (was I in a dream?). The pot made me paranoid, and Boris laughed at me as I checked my pockets for the key to my apartment again and again. As if it may have spontaneously popped away into infinity in the past minute or so of my sitting quietly and without disturbance. I guess he must have sensed my unease. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Aren’t you excited?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure,” I said, meaning it despite my tone, “but I don’t understand. Don’t you have work?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At first, in the little grocery down the street, I’d been shocked and elated: we bought more food than we needed, sparkling cider and vodka, tiny paper umbrellas for our drinks (per Boris’ insistence). I’d been lightheaded with relief. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He tutted. “If I didn’t know better I think is like you are trying to get rid of me.” His English always faltered under the influence — just that slightest bit off, slurry but not incomprehensible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Won’t you, I don’t know, get in trouble?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He gave me a tough-guy kind of look. “Am my own boss, Potter. I set my hours.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Besides,” he said, grinning unevenly, “am filthy rich now. We have your little bird to thank for this.” He raised his blunt: a toast. He had a jaunty, offhand air about him, which was weird. “Was meant to be, no? Like fate. Kismet. And now we reunite for second time, bound together at last. We live in same house like old days, no? Together again, brothers in arms.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was a great dark well I could fall into, thinking about the painting, the bird, the journey. I felt the possibility of it poking at me, an annoyance. I tried to focus on breathing through it like some bodily pain. My brain had gone sluggish and soft where before it had been taut with anxiety. I ached for a line of coke. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Blyad, I wonder what we would have done with that kind of dough back then. What do you think? Bought lifetime supply of pizza? Hah!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Probably blown it on drugs,” I said.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bah, no, you pessimist Potter. Hah! Say that five times fast.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pissy Potty Potter. Sorry, I stop. God, ’s been a long time since I smoked the mary-huana. I forgot the smell.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s why they call it skunk.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Genius! You are genius. It smells just like a skunk!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I didn’t call it that first, some other guy did. I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We should smoke more skunk. Hah! Best shit is in Big Apple, New York City. NYC, baby! Well, maybe not — California has it better. But, wow, is crazy, no? Here together in big city? I dreamed of this for years, am telling you! Drove myself crazy thinking about it!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What, in Vegas?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yah, of course, was hardest years of my life, I think. Or, maybe not, I don’t know, was always hard. Hah! Some life I have led. And why am I talking? I’m sitting next to unluckiest bloke on the planet, maybe. Eh? You think so?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are unlucky, no?” He blew a cloud of smoke in my face so all I saw was white and the round shadow of his mouth working for a second. “Series of unfortunate events, you’ve had.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” I said, brain fuzzy, “I could say the same of you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fair enough,” he said. “Fair e-nough! This guy makes a good point.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Boris, you’re acting crazy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He burst out laughing. “Oh, my god! I love this. I love — this weed.” He looked sharply away, all of a sudden. “Nice taste. Very smooth. Who is your, ah, dealer?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t — He’s not my dealer anymore. This is old stuff.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah. Aged like a fine wine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We stuck around until the sky grew yellow-orange as a grapefruit and melted down into the city. Nothing like a desert sunset, but we saw it a million times at once, reflected back at us in the innumerable windows and mirrors, panels of them stacked like cards, the same blinding flash of light multiplied and piercing so that when I closed my eyes I saw tens of their blue shadows in the dark.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">We stumbled downstairs while we still had light to see our own hands before us; I struggled for minutes to put my key in the lock, after all that grief, but we made it back to the apartment safe and buzzed and warm. I was beginning to loosen up a bit. Boris tended to have that effect. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe we should smoke less weed,” he said all of a sudden. We were sitting on the couch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean?” I said, laughing quietly but uncontrollably. “You had one blunt. One. You said you haven’t smoked pot in a while.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is true,” he said, smiling at me. “Good memory on you. Sometimes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, fuck off.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hah.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I struggled to my feet and went to put another album on the record player; I realized it was likely a poor idea to attempt changing the disk, so I just let the needle drop as delicately as I could manage on the same VU album as before. It landed in the middle of a song. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Potter! We just heard this!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You try putting on a new record, then.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Boris hauled up off the couch, slapping his knees and pushing off, groaning about my ineptitude and sloth. He put on that new Belle &amp; Sebastian album and with a surprisingly steady hand. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Was he going to leave eventually? Would he stay for a week and then take off, blame it on work? Was he going to fill my apartment with his things and then leave me here with them?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The songs were good, better than I’d expected. They hadn’t put out a good album since before my mother died. Boris started bobbing and dancing around. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shite, if only our fat old poustyschka was here!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I laughed and watched him, dizzy with dope; a sudden shock of light touched him, issuing from somewhere beyond the window, and it was so bright and unexpected that I couldn’t look away. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hah! Join me, Potter. That’s it, come here.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The day after that, I had work. Boris and I ended up passing out on the couch at around one in the morning; I woke (legs kicked out on his lap, head lolling back on the arm of the couch) to my alarm at seven slightly dazed but otherwise no worse for the wear than could be expected. I showered and changed, picked up our mess in the living room; Boris was fast asleep. His hands twitched where they rested beside his face; I wondered if he was having a dream.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The kitchen was populated with a frankly absurd amount of food, so that I put several things in the increasingly overstuffed freezer for fear that we wouldn’t eat it all before it expired. How special and strange it was to have a full cupboard. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I cooked breakfast — eggs on thick toasted slices of rye, fruit salad, sausage with pepper and spices — and ate it standing at the counter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As I finished up, I heard rustling from the sofa. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Potter?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Over here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heard his feet hit the ground, his yawn. “Did you cook something? Smells delicious.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, yeah, nothing special. There’s a plate for you in the fridge.” I went to the sink and began washing up. “Didn’t want to wake you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heard him come into the kitchen, walking up behind me. Another yawn; hand on my shoulder, nudging me away. “Let me do that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? Oh.” He took the sponge from my hand and picked up where I’d left off scrubbing at a frying pan. For something to do, I started picking up apple cores and banana peels to put in the trash.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He clicked his tongue, shooed me away. “Leave it, I’ll get that. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His back moved as he worked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh — yeah, I guess. You sure you don’t mind?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Pah, is no bother. Go on ahead.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.” I put on my coat, paused at the door. “Will I see you when I come back?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He glanced over his shoulder at me. “I’ll pick you up,” he said. “When does your shift end?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, six is fine,” I said, a little dazed. “You don’t need to pick me up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t understand, Potter: I have to see Snaps.” He raised his eyebrows, very serious for a moment. He still looked a little sleepy; his cheeks were flushed. “I promised him."</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The day passed without much commotion; I opened the shop and spent a few hours swindling rich white Manhattanites of their trust fund money before Hobie called me down for a late lunch: grilled cheese sandwiches and soup from the deli he liked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I wondered if he was going to ask about Boris, now that it was just the two of us; but he was so seemingly unbothered by the whole mess that I paused to worry that this was in fact a sign that he was suffering from some early stage of dementia. And when, surely over thirty minutes into our conversation, he finally brought it up, it was with such tact and gentleness that I almost didn’t register what he was asking. He had to repeat himself:</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hate to ask, but is everything alright on your end?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I thought instantly of Boris. “I — Yes, I think so.” A pause. “Are you asking about the furniture?” Just to be sure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, no-no, I know you’re all squared up there. Not a worry. I was only asking after your friend.” He must have gathered something from my expression, because his tone became impossibly gentler. “I only know that the two of you have been through quite an ordeal together.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, yes, I — I know.” I was stumbling over my words, stupefied. “It’s — I mean, we’re alright. We aren’t involved in anything illicit, or anything like that. He’s just — He’s staying with me for a while. As a friend.” (I cringed.) “To help with the rent. You know, since there’s an extra room, and all.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was nodding slowly, gaze utterly mild. When I stopped talking, blushing fiercely for no good reason and looking anywhere but his eyes, he gave me a warm smile and proceeded with the delicate task of cutting his grilled cheese into triangles. “I’m glad to hear it. I know I must sound like a broken record, but do know that you’re always welcome to kip down here.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” I said quietly, humbled. I looked at my food and suddenly couldn’t help myself: “You aren’t mad?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course not,” he said, blotting his mouth with a napkin like I’d asked about the weather. "I trust you, Theo.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You do?” I blurted without thinking, and then immediately wanted to slap myself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This time he looked at me; I thought I saw a flash of concern. “Yes,” he said, more firmly, “of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I didn’t know how to respond. This whole conversation was making me feel like a fish out of water, gills flexing helplessly at dry air and heart thudding with the threat of death. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t worry,” he said to my silence, and I was relieved: “Try the soup; it’s delicious.” </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Later, down in the workshop, I let it slip that Boris may be making another visit to the shop that night. He seemed pleased; still, it was with some trepidation that I received Boris at the door, bidden by his overloud knocking. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He grinned when he saw me. “Potter!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You came.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did I not say I would?” I moved to let him pass me, and he touched my shoulder as he went. “Where’s Mr. Hobie?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He’s downstairs,” I said. We made our way into the living room, Boris’ eyes darting along the ground as we went like he was looking for something. “Oh — Popper’s asleep in the kitchen. Hold on.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I strode past the fridge and found him curled in a little ball on the linoleum, paws twitching in sleep. Carefully, I put a hand on his head; he was growing deaf, and I didn’t want to surprise him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I heard Boris come in behind me. “Ooh, he’s here! Look at him, the little snezhok. So sleepy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Popper still jerked awake as I pet him, but then his eyes found me and his tail began thumping rapidly. When Boris approached, he stood up on his shaky legs and whined; and Boris scooped him up in his arms, laughing, and carried the fluffy old beast like a baby, bouncing him gently, kissing him happily on the nose. (A memory: my heart stopped, then continued gamely on.)</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Popchyk! Amyl! My friend! You are so old, little bird. When did you get so old?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Little bird</em>. That struck me. “He’s a dog.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” He glanced at me, appearing genuinely confused, and I realized that it may have been a non-sequitur. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Little bird,” I repeated. “That’s a weird nickname.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He shrugged. “I say it all the time. You just don’t pay attention.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I frowned at that. Before I could get a word in, I heard footsteps on the creaky stairs: Hobie. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>comments are my lifeblood! come talk to me at weirdbody.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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